TO THE LIGHTHOUSE
separating one thing from another; she would
be saying she liked the Waverley Novels or had
not read them; she would be urging herself
forward; now she said nothing. For the moment
she hung suspended.
" Ah, but how long do you think it'll last?"
said somebody. It was as if she had antennae
trembling out from her, which, intercepting cer-
tain sentences, forced them upon her attention.
This was one of them. She scented danger for
her husband. A question like that would lead,
almost certainly, to something being said which
reminded him of his own failure. How long
would he be read—he would think at once.
William Bankes (who was entirely free from all
such vanity) laughed, and said he attached no^
importance to changes in fashion. Who could
tell what was going to last—in literature or indeed
in anything else?
"Let us enjoy what we do enjoy," he said.
His integrity seemed to Mrs. Ramsay quite
admirable. He never seemed for a moment to
think, But how does this affect me? But then
if you had the other temperament, which must
have praise, which must have encouragement,
naturally you began (and she knew that Mr,
Ramsay was beginning) to be uneasy; to want
somebody to say. Oh, but your work will last,